


And now you know my name

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, dreamshare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: “Have you ever time-traveled in a dream? Used a dream to revisit the past, a memory?”





	And now you know my name

**Author's Note:**

> As always, chasingriver made this story better with her insightful beta. Thank you.

They are lying in tumbled sheets, the lamplight dim and gold, Arthur’s hand rubbing through Eames’ short hair.

“What was it like, when you came out?” Eames says, apparently from nowhere. “To your parents? Did you? You must have.” He lifts his head from Arthur’s chest and turns to look at him. “Were they decent about it?”

They’ve never talked about this before. Arthur thinks back. “Um, yes. My mom was fine. You know. My dad didn’t say much.” Then he remembers something else. “The next time I came home from college, he had a rainbow sticker on his car. Which was sweet, but … kind of weird. He kept getting smiles from guys at traffic lights. He could never understand why.” He laughs. And then he sees the pain behind Eames’ answering smile.

“It wasn’t like that for you, was it?”

“No.” 

“Want to tell me?”

“I suppose I do,” says Eames, lying back down. So he isn’t looking at Arthur.

“I didn’t so much come out as get found out.” His voice is very quiet. “I got suspended from school. Caught giving Peter Delahaye a blow job in the cricket pavilion.” He laughs, but there’s no humour there. “They didn’t chuck me out, just sent me home for a week. Icy week, I can tell you.”

“Eames …” 

“Why the fuck am I thinking about this now? Ancient bloody history.” His voice has risen. He turns over with his back to Arthur, as if to go to sleep, but he continues speaking. “The school would have had me back, but he wouldn’t send me. Sent me to the local school. Which was fine, I didn't care about the school, but I had to live at home and the iciness never thawed, really. I got out as soon as I could. My mother was okay, but he didn’t let her be nice, or anything.”

Arthur sits up, puts a hand on Eames’ shoulder, tries to roll him back over. Eames resists, but then he sighs and flops onto his back. Arthur lies down again, with his head on Eames’ shoulder, pulls Eames’ hand onto his head. Eames loves running his hands through Arthur’s hair when it’s longer, between jobs. 

“You got out,” Arthur says. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“Believe me, he didn’t get anything from me.” Eames voice is hard. Arthur’s not used to hearing that tone here, in their bed. It’s unsettling. But Eames’ hand is in his hair, his fingers scratching lightly. They are quiet.

“What made you think about it now?” Arthur says after a long pause. “Did something happen?”

“Not really. I was just thinking. I’m happy. But it took a while.”

“We _are_ happy, aren’t we?” 

“We are,” Eames says firmly. “I wasn’t, for ages. Nowhere to call home. No one,” he adds, almost under his breath.

Arthur knew that, objectively. That Eames had been itinerant, a nomad in the world and with lovers; never settling. He just never knew why, completely.

*

“Eames,” he says, a few nights later, looking up from his book. Eames glances over, closes his own book and sets it aside. 

“Yes, love?” He’s always like this, totally present for Arthur.

“Have you ever time-traveled in a dream? Used a dream to revisit the past, a memory?”

Eames narrows his eyes. “You mean, have I ever violated one of the rules of dreamshare? Done what Dom Cobb used to do? Wallowed in the past? No. I haven't. Have you?”

“No,” says Arthur, “and that’s not what I mean, precisely.” 

Eames is frowning at him from the other end of the sofa. Arthur slides closer, takes Eames’ hand. “You said … you didn't get to come out on your own terms.”

Eames’ frown has not shifted, but he doesn't say anything, so Arthur has to press on. “You were sad about it.”

“Ah, Arthur, it’s ancient history.”

“But you brought it up. I had an idea.” He stops, uncertain if this is the worst idea he’s ever had. But Eames hasn’t shut him down, yet. “I thought … maybe you … we … could go back. Like a do-over.”

“What good would that do?” Eames isn’t angry, but he isn't engaged by the idea.

“Maybe, you could do it on your terms?”

“I still don’t see the point, Arthur.”

“Yeah, it’s a stupid idea. Sorry. I just thought …”

Eames sighs. “No, it’s a … kind idea.” He pulls Arthur’s hand into his lap. “I appreciate the thought.”

“But not the idea.”

Eames lifts Arthur’s hand to his mouth. His lips brush across the knuckles as he shakes his head. His eyes are sad.

*

Eames is cleaning his firearm a few days later when he suddenly says: “How does it work? Time travel?”

Arthur is at his desk, doing preliminary research for his next job. He turns to look at Eames. “Well, the person whose memory it is has to construct the dream.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Arthur echoes. “Apparently …” What he knows about it he learned from Dom, but Eames won’t want to hear that. “Apparently, the more time they spend thinking about it ahead of time, the better. Kind of like an architect, I guess. That’s the downside. You have to revisit the memory in detail, before you can dream it.”

Eames is thoughtful.

“It’s a bad idea,” says Arthur. “Why would you want to dredge it back up like that? I’m sorry I ever mentioned it. I didn’t think it through.” He gets up and goes across to the sofa where Eames is sitting, his disassembled gun spread on the coffee table. He sits down next to him and leans into his side. “I’ll drop it. Forgive me?”

“Of course!” Eames looks at him. “God, of course!” He kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth and they stay leaned together, not saying anything.

*

“I seem to have done the preparation anyway. For a memory-dream,” Eames says weeks later, after Arthur has returned from his job, a boring industrial extraction in Denver.

“What?” he says.

“That idea you had. I’ve done the revisiting anyway.”

“God, Eames, I'm sorry. That my dumb idea sent you back there.”

“Well, I was going back there anyway, wasn’t I? I brought it up in the first place.”

“Did you just stew over it while I was away?” They’re drinking coffee in bed. Eames puts down his mug and shuffles closer.

“I sort of did,” he says. “I tried not to. But, well, that never works, does it. Elephant, and all that.”

Arthur is startled into a chuckle. He puts his own mug aside and lies down, his face turned towards Eames on the pillow. “Elephant.”

Eames smiles, a bit sadly. “So, since I have, we may as well try it. Can’t hurt.”

“It could.” 

“No. Fuck it, it won’t! When you first brought it up, you said _we_ could go back.”

Arthur brings his hand up to Eames’ face, cups his cheek. “Yes. I thought, maybe, if I came back there with you, you could change things around a bit.”

“But it doesn't actually change anything, does it?” 

“No. It doesn't change reality. But it might give you a better ‘memory’. That’s the theory. God knows if it works.” It never seemed to do Dom all that much good, he doesn't say. “If you go back and confront your memory of your father, as the person you are now, maybe you’ll get to control it differently. Be in control, instead of … how it was,” he trails off, not wanting to claim to know how it had felt for teenage Eames, although he has imagined it.

His own adolescence had been much more placid, innocent. He’d known he was gay, fooled around a bit in high school, come out to his tolerant, liberal parents, gone off to college, fallen in what seemed like love at the time, had his heart sort of broken once or twice, no lasting damage. Then he’d met Dom and dreamshare had taken over his life, leaving not much room for anything more than dalliances. And then he’d met Eames and they’d begun their long, prickly flirtation, long over now, thank god. 

Eames has never spoken fondly of his childhood. Hardly mentions it. He is never less than open-hearted with Arthur, in the here and now, but there is a lot that is left to one side, what came before his nomad years when he too was discovering dreamshare and its most arcane possibilities. Arthur has wondered if Eames’ forging ability arises from his willingness to put parts of himself to one side, to hold his personality and memories in a loose grip. 

Except now it seems his memories aren’t held so lightly after all.

“That’s what I hated the most,” says Eames. “Not being in control. Having my life upended by him. I really didn’t care about being put in the state school. I could make friends anywhere. I didn’t even care what he thought of me. He made it clear enough. The supposed shame I’d brought on his good name at that school. Of course he went there. And his father. He cared more about that than anything else.”

It’s a world that is entirely foreign to Arthur.

“So he sent me to school where I couldn’t embarrass him. And I went to clubs every weekend and gave and got plenty more blowjobs. He never cared about that.”

Eames’ voice has taken on that hard, bitter tone Arthur hates, and rarely hears. 

“And of _course_ , Delahaye never even tried to get in touch. Seems I was just a stop along his straight path to the City. Not even a detour. My mother sent me the clipping from _The Times_ when he married some sweet Home Counties type.”

Arthur has only the vaguest idea of what Eames is talking about. He has kept a hand on him, let him say what he needs to without interruption. The details aren’t important, after all, it’s how Eames felt that is.

Eames rubs his hand down his face, catches Arthur’s hand in his. “So yes. I wouldn’t mind trying to feel less like a disregarded child. Tell me how it’s supposed to work.”

“Well,” says Arthur, “you understand it’s a bit imprecise. And that this is …” He has to come out and say it. “This is Dom’s theory.” 

Eames snorts, derisive. “I guessed as much.”

“Yes, well, he thinks that if you have revisited the memory enough, you are less likely to simply experience it as you wish it was. Your projections won’t simply be idealised versions of the people you are recalling—”

“I thought that was the point, to change the memory?”

“Yes, but if you don’t enter the true memory, the effect is not as … worthwhile, I guess? You have to change as little as possible. And you really have to try to change your own actions and reactions. So it helps to be … willing? Maybe? To experience it as it was, and then alter just enough so you feel happier about your own part. The part you didn’t control as well as you could. Or couldn’t, seeing as he had all the power.”

“That makes sense,” says Eames. “And what role do you play, in the dream?”

“Yeah, that’s even less precise. I don’t know. Dom doesn’t either really. Ari sort of stowed away a few times. And we all saw the memories he couldn’t help bringing into other dreams. But I don’t know if an outsider can really participate. Maybe I can just be there as a … this sounds terribly touchy-feely or whatever … as a support?”

“As a support,” echoes Eames. “Yes. Thank you.” He tightens his grip on Arthur’s hand, almost painfully. “Can we do it before I decide I can’t?”

“Of course. Today, if you want.”

Eames has been staring up at the ceiling, but he turns to face Arthur. “Yes, fuck it. I’m tired of stewing over it.” 

Normally, on most jobs, the routine, dull industrial espionage stuff, they go under quite casually, to check layouts, and then to do the extraction itself. It has ceased to feel momentous, going down one level with an ordinary mark, when all they are interested in is a bit of proprietary code, or a plan, or a company’s real financials. But of course this feels different. Arthur's stomach flips nervously and Eames looks tenser than he ever usually does. 

They’ve never used the PASIV at home. They don’t discuss it, but they won’t use it in the bedroom now. That feels wrong, false dreams in their most intimate space. Arthur sets it up in the living room while Eames showers. 

When Eames comes back out, wearing track pants and an old T-shirt, he’s biting his lip and frowning. “I warn you, darling, teenage me was an awkward kid. And school uniform isn’t very flattering.” He laughs, but Arthur sees past his attempt to break the tension and pulls him into his arms. Eames relaxes into the hold. “I’m sure you want to shower too,” he says after a silent while.

“Sure,” says Arthur, “I’ll be quick.”

When he’s finished, Eames is sitting in the armchair staring at the PASIV as if he’s never seen one, his knee bouncing nervously. He stands up. “Right, let’s do this. As far as I can recall, the initial drama lasted a couple of hours. Him shouting, mother wringing her hands … Ten minutes should do it. I don’t want to get stuck there too long, and there’s no shooting ourselves out, and no kick up here.”

“You can always just leave. Go for a walk or something,” says Arthur. He wishes he knew how this was going to work. He especially wishes he knew what he’ll be doing. He realises he doesn’t know one crucial detail. “When was this, Eames? How old were you?”

“Sixteen. I wasn’t breaking any law or anything. Oh, I see. You’d be thirteen, then. I apologise, darling. Subjecting you to this at that age.”

“But you know it’s me now, don’t you? I mean, I’m not thirteen in the dream, even if I look it. You’re not sixteen. You’re you, now. That’s the whole point.”

“Yes. I do know that. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough how it feels.” 

“Yes, we will.” Arthur is standing over the PASIV, which he has open on the coffee table. “Why don’t you lie on the couch?” he says. “I’ll sit in the chair.”

“Okay.” Eames moves across and stretches out. 

Arthur reaches for his hand. “Let me?” he says, rubbing his thumb over the tender inside of Eames’ wrist. Usually, they each insert their own line, but he feels the need to take care of Eames. And he feels a powerful echo that he hopes Eames feels as well, from a hotel room long ago. He slips the cannula in smoothly, Eames looking up at him. His faint smile tells Arthur that he does indeed feel it. He sits down and inserts his own line. “Okay, ready?” His finger is poised over the button. Eames nods. He’s biting his lip again. Arthur presses the button.

*

The room they’re in is a gloomy study, lit only by the desk lamp, which casts its glow on the face of the man seated at the desk. Eames — teenaged, thinner, soft-faced — is standing in the shadows. The man looks like Arthur imagines Eames could grow older to look, if he was both self-satisfied and dissatisfied with everyone else. Arthur glances down at himself, startled to see that he’s not the 13-year-old they expected, but his current self, impeccably dressed in the suit he knows is Eames’ favourite. _Oh. Interesting_. He’s near the door, in even deeper shadow. The man appears not to have noticed him. _Good_.

“Do you have any idea what your behaviour has cost me?” Eames’ father scowls and Arthur sees Eames draw in on himself. 

“I’ll never be able to visit my own alma mater again without being the object of scorn. And pity.”

Eames flinches. 

“Your depraved conduct, your filthy behaviour, has dragged my name into the mud.”

“I didn't do anything dirty,” Eames says, very quietly.

“What? You were caught on your knees! Filthy!” Eames’ father is shouting now. 

Arthur wishes he could touch Eames, offer him comfort as he stands bearing his father’s rant. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” says Eames, still very quiet.

“Boyfriend? Boyfriend? Oh no, silly boy. That’s just school. It’s just a phase. But you were stupid enough to get caught.”

Now Eames raises his head. His hair is hanging in his eyes. “No,” he says, his voice a bit firmer. “No. I know what I feel. I know who I am.”

“Who you are? You’re a Bedford, that’s who you are. Although that doesn’t seem to mean anything at all to you.” 

Now Eames’ chin comes up and he squares his shoulders. “You care more about your ‘good name’ than about me? Fine.” He turns away, catches sight of Arthur for the first time with a baffled look. He opens the door and walks out. His father is frozen in apparent shock.

Arthur follows and sees Eames opening another door at the end of a long hallway. The house is clearly huge. This dream has revealed more about Eames’ background than he has ever shared; Arthur can see why he doesn't talk about his childhood. Eames had said his mother was present during this confrontation in reality, and he wonders why she has been edited out this time. He catches up with Eames on a wide swathe of gravel outside the house. It’s very strange, being with this teenaged Eames. 

“Well, that wasn't what I expected. At all,” says Eames. “Let’s get away from here. Walk with me?” He sets off across the gravel towards the side of the house. They’ve got at least another hour before the dream ends. Eames keeps walking, fast, across a lawn, towards a patch of trees, Arthur hurrying slightly to keep up. In the shade, Eames turns to wait for him. Arthur wants, so much, to reach for Eames, but he hesitates. 

“Arthur?” says Eames. His voice is a little lighter than it is topside. Arthur has seen Eames forge other people many times — men, women, older, younger, shorter, fatter, taller — and it has never bothered him the way he is bothered now.

“Arthur? Please?” 

So he steps across the distance between them and takes Eames in his arms, feeling him release a huge breath of tension.

After a long while, Eames starts to speak, his face muffled against Arthur’s shoulder. “I couldn’t change it,” he says. “That’s how it happened. Well, the first time. That wasn't the only time. I thought changing it was the point.”

Arthur brings his hand to the back of Eames’ head. His long hair feels quite different. “That’s how it went when you were a kid?”

Eames nods.

“Eames! You were amazing. You stood up to him. You weren’t ashamed. You didn't back down. I was so … proud of you. Of teenage you.”

Eames lifts his head to look at Arthur. “Really?”

“Yes. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps that’s why you couldn’t change it. It didn’t need changing.”

“But I felt so … humiliated.”

“You felt humiliated because of the way he treated you. Of course you did. He said ugly things. But you had nothing to _be ashamed of_ then. And you told him that. Maybe all you needed to change was the way you remember it? You showed it to me. Let me help you remember how you really were. Brave and honest and unashamed.”

“Okay.” Eames sounds worn out. He lays his head back on Arthur’s shoulder and they stand together in the grove of trees in the garden of his boyhood home. Time unspools slowly, but finally, faintly, Arthur hears The Clash’s _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ drifting through the trees.

“That’s our cue, darling. I set it on my phone. I loved that song,” says Eames.

“Good choice,” says Arthur, holding Eames’ hand as they wake from the dream.

Eames lies looking up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he gets up and comes over to Arthur, gently removes his cannula before taking out his own. He sets them back on the PASIV before taking Arthur’s face in his hands and kissing him, bent awkwardly over the chair. “God, I needed that,” he says, straightening up. “It felt too weird to do when I was—”

“A kid? Yeah, me too,” says Arthur, standing up and kissing Eames. It’s easier like this and they are in each other’s arms a long time, tender with each other.

*

They are quiet together the rest of day, Arthur paying attention so he can see when Eames is revisiting his memories and the dream. He touches him perhaps more than usual, wanting to offer the comfort of his presence without requiring explanation. 

In bed at last, the room lit only by a light on in the hall, Eames is lying with his head on Arthur’s shoulder, the sheet pushed down past his hips, revealing the solid manly bulk of him. The contrast with the thin, soft boy he had been in the dream gives Arthur an odd frisson, but of course, he has never lost all that fragile beauty, if you know how to see it.

“You know how I said it was thinking how happy I am now, that got me started thinking about all this?”

“Yes.”

“I never talk about my childhood. But I’m glad I showed you. I don't want to dwell on it, I’d rather live in the present. With you. But you deserve to know things I've kept hidden.”

“Eames, you don't have to—”

“But I wanted to. Ancient bloody history. It’s done now.”

“I’m glad it worked. Even if not how I thought it would.”

“Better,” says Eames. “Realising I didn't have to change it.”

His hand traces idle patterns on Arthur's skin and they drift together in the safe dark.

“And now you know … my name.” Eames’ voice is soft with almost-sleep.

“I’ve always known it.” 

“How? I thought I covered my tracks pretty well.”

“Not his name. _Your_ name. The name you chose. His name isn’t important, Eames.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on two squares from last year's trope bingo.
> 
> Here's the Clash song: [Should I Stay or Should I Go?](https://youtu.be/BN1WwnEDWAM)


End file.
